


that taste at the tip of your tongue

by hitlikehammers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Family Feels, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Nostalgia, Schmoop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitlikehammers/pseuds/hitlikehammers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's a strong guy. Courageous, even. Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.</p><p>But this powdered hot chocolate in a paper pouch is a travesty, and he's not sure he can stomach it.</p><p>And <i>please</i>, do <i>not</i> get him started on the K-Cups. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <span class="small">Or: Steve makes Tony <i>real</i> hot chocolate. (And because I don't know when to stop: Tony then returns the favor.)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hershey's 1934 Cookbook

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RC_McLachlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/gifts).



> [RC_Mclachlan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_Mclachlan) asked for Steve teaching Tony how to make _real_ hot chocolate. And because I couldn't leave Steve with the upper hand (and couldn't resist just a _little_ angst): the second chapter was born. Yay?

By the fifth time Tony clears his throat within the space of a single minute, Steve’s about had it.

“You’re getting sick.”

Tony doesn’t even bother to look up. “I don’t get sick.”

“Right.”

“Tickle in my throat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just need something to drink.”

Tellingly— _predictably_ —Tony doesn’t make to _get_ something to drink. Of course.

Steve sighs.

“Hot or cold?”

“Hot,” Tony answers, like he knew Steve would push the issue, would take control of the actual effort involved.

“Coffee?”

Tony pauses, miniature welding tools that Steve knows are for welding but doesn’t know the names of hanging limp in mid-air; bites his lip in that way Steve can’t help but love before he decides:

“Hot chocolate.”

Steve frowns.

“Do you have the ingredients?” Steve asks, skeptical. Tony doesn’t have ingredients for a whole hell of a lot. He’s much more of a takeout kinda guy, and for better or worse, Steve never fought that battle much. He was never the _best_ in the kitchen, and Tony may not have much appreciation for a home cooked meal, but he _did_ have something of a quote-unquote palate. 

Tony’d already gone back to his tinkering—of course he had—but he pauses again to stare all furrowed-brow-beneath-protective-eyewear at Steve.

“ _Ingredients_?”

“Umm, yeah,” Steve shrugs, because what else is he going to do? “For the hot chocolate?”

Tony considers him for a split second before leaning back over his hunk of metal and calling over the hum of his delicate metal-bonding instruments. 

“Packets in the cabinets,” he hollers. “K-cups in the drawer.”

And that’s that, apparently.

And Steve probably shouldn’t have expected anything less.

He goes for the powder first, because he’s not averse to technology, contrary to popular belief, nor is he too old to understand how to use it, thank you very much: he just doesn’t really _trust_ it. 

The specks, the little...miniature sponge cubes that Steve assumes are the “marshmallows” advertised on the box.

Dear lord.

And Steve’s a brave man. Steve’s faced aliens, and evil robots, and friggin’ _Nazis_ , for god’s sake.

So he does it. He faces it down.

He tries the damned beverage.

And he’s damn well had been swill in the trenches, holy _hell_.

Steve covertly tips the mug into the sink, though he didn’t really need to worry—Tony’s entranced by his pet project of god-knows-what; Steve takes the opportunity to glance toward DUM-E in bewilderment.

“Did I do it right?” Steve asks, mostly hoping he’d screwed it up somehow. Because, again: not the best in the kitchen.

And, y’know. Maybe he’d misread one of the… three steps.

DUM-E does what Steve’s long since learned is his approximation of a shake of the head.

Well, shit. 

Steve steels himself. Man with a plan, they always called him. Punched Hitler in the jaw on a daily basis, way back when. He’s stared death down more times than death is worth the focus. He can _do_ this.

He breathes in deep; exhales slow.

Right.

Pod-version it is.

He approaches the machine with all due wariness, arms crossed as he considers the way in which it seems to function, recalls the times he’s watched it used before.

He piloted a Hydra airship. He can _do_ this.

And the landing in the Arctic was _intentional_ , so. Right. 

He fills the reservoir, grabs one of the light plastic cup-things, pops it in, closes the lever, waits for the needle to pop and the brewing light to blink and there it goes.

Modern technology. He’s totally on top of it.

The mug is filled within seconds, which is suspect in and of itself. The resultant liquid that does said filling it translucent and pale and largely unappetizing, both to look at and to smell and just to, be. Around.

But Steve is Captain America, goddamnit.

And as Captain America, he is not above spitting that shit straight back out.

He glances at Tony, who remains oblivious.

Well.

 _Shit_.

__________________________________

“The hell are you doing?”

Steve looks up from the stovetop, which Steve would like to point out appeared to have never been _used_ , not for _food_ before this very instance—and why would it have, in Tony’s workshop, what was Steve _thinking_ —but Steve looks up from the stovetop but continues stirring the contents of his saucepan as he adds milk to the mixture.

“Taking full advantage of the fact that you don’t know how to eat at all, ever, in your life, like a real person.”

Tony arches his neck to glance over Steve’s shoulder. “Uh huh.”

At least the bastard doesn’t deny it.

“And also taking full advantage of the fact that Amazon dot com offers same day delivery within the New York City limits.”

Tony considers the small array of ingredients on the countertop.

“The salt,” he concludes, and it’s not ever sarcastic. “You ordered the salt?”

“You had the damn salt,” Steve rolls his eyes. Hell: Tony had the damned _marshmallow whip_.

Which gives Steve ideas, honestly. And make him wonder why he’s the one coming up with them, if the marshmallow whip’s been here all this time, but whatever.

Priorities. There is a task at hand.

“Did I? What a naughty boy I am,” Tony muses idly, smirk playing at his lips as he noses around Steve’s handiwork. “Heart condition, you know.” Ah, he’s still talking about the salt. “Up through, well, recently.”

“Hilarious,” Steve deadpans. “I had to but the cocoa.”

“Ah,” Tony nods sagely. “Right, makes sense. That shit’s nasty.”

“By _itself_.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to eat it?”

Tony, Steve thinks, might just be a fucking lost cause in some things.

This may well be one of those things.

“You still haven’t really answered the question,” Tony presses.

“Did you ask a question? I can’t remember,” Steve strokes his chin, turning off the burner and looking to Tony with as innocent a look as he can muster. 

“Ancient, you know,” he gestures to himself self-deprecatingly. “Trouble keeping track.”

“Oh, snarky,” Tony grins broadly, leans to nip at Steve’s chin. “You know how I like you snarky.”

That Steve does. _Very_ much so.

He ignores the tightening in his crotch so that he can focus on filling up the mug at his side; focus on scooping the just-soft enough marshmallow to dollop _just_ so on the top. 

“Here,” Steve grabs the mug and crooks his arm at the elbow in offering. 

“ _Here_ ,” Tony purrs, snaking arms around Steve’s waist and dragging him close enough that Steve can tell for sure that there’s tightening happening in Tony’s crotch, too.

“Careful, Tony, it’s hot!” Steve bends to keep the much level.

“You’re hot,” Tony tries to keep the banter going but Steve won’t have it. He spins around in Tony’s hold and resolutely offers the mug.

At which Tony stares. Just fucking _stares_.

“What is this?”

Steve meets that stare with own, because: _seriously_?

“You can’t tell?”

 

“I can tell,” and now, Steve can hear a certain edge, a certain depth to Tony’s tone that he hadn’t noticed at the first go. He can’t place it, not quite, but he knows it’s there, and that there’s meaning inside it. Somewhere.

“But I want to know why.”

Steve only shrugs. 

“That powder disturbs me with the,” he tries to mime tiny squares between his fingertips; “Marsh-sponges.” He fights a shudder. “And the little tubs?”

 

“K-cups.”

“I was served better on the _Front_ , Tony. I’m not kidding.”

Tony’s eyes just narrow, that’s literally the only shift in his expression.

“And if that’s what you call hot chocolate, I just,” Steve sighs, and the mug Tony still hasn’t taken from him slumps in his grasp to waist level.

“You deserve better, is all.”

And that’s the the long and short of it, really. That’s what it all comes down to.

His Tony _deserves_ better.

And maybe Tony was just bullshitting, or maybe Tony sees more than he lets on, as usual. But he takes the mug, then, and brings it to his lips, and drinks deep enough for chocolate and fluff to stick in his beard, to coat his upper lip.

Tony considers the sample critically for a moment, before grinning, just a little. 

“S’good, Rogers,” Tony declares, and leans in to press himself, chest to chest against Steve, hand holding the mug flung over Steve’s shoulder to keep it steady as he mouths, chocolatey and decadent and beautiful against Steve’s lips:

“Real good.”


	2. Cioccolata Calda

Steve wakes up in the middle of the night to a distinct lack of his bed-partner.

Par for the course, then. 

And Steve doesn't need much sleep, so he's happy enough to swing out of bed and slip on some jogging pants—if not any underwear; he's an optimist in that regard, and not idly where Tony’s concerned—and pads barefoot along the familiar path the the elevator, and down to the workshop. 

Which, _not_ par for the course, Steve finds completely empty. Blissfully quiet. 

Steve frowns, less from concern than suspicion. His lover has his own demons, true enough—as many as Steve, and sometimes Steve wonders if maybe more, maybe greater and deeper—but the workshop is safe enough a place for Tony to work out his terror in the night. It's Tony's heavy bag. It's Tony's bloody knuckles. 

Steve gets that. 

But unleashed anywhere _else_...

Steve gets back in the elevator. 

__________________________________

“Smells good.”

And it's stating the obvious,and an understatement at that—it smells _amazing_ —but it's about all Steve can come up with. He's struck a little bit dumb, to be honest. Because he's found Tony. He'd had to ask JARVIS, in fact, which is an embarrassment in itself, because how the hell was Steve supposed to even start to suspect he'd find Tony in the _kitchen_? But he's found Tony. At the stove. Stirring slowly. Hips swaying with the motion. 

Swaying _naked_ hips. 

In fact, Tony's stripped bare save for an apron made for a slighter frame than his own, that basically only covers the vertical strip that, well. 

Basically covers Tony’s happy trail and a few inches to either side. 

Steve's honestly not sure what kind of body the apron _is_ supposed to cover. He's thinking maybe the not-covering is kind of the point. 

And if it is: it's damn well successful. Steve can see just about everything in profile, from the right angle. At either side. 

He's glad he put on pants. His own dick’d be just as visible, otherwise. 

Might be, in fact. Real soon. 

Not that anyone can blame him. Tony's ass is _really_ something. 

But anyway.

“Course it smells good, Popsicle.”

And it still strikes Steve in the strangest of ways, how once they’d started this so much had changed, and still so much had stayed just the same as ever: like the name, that comes out with more affection than mocking, now, but still mocks nonetheless, because that’s who Tony is. That’s what Tony does.

That’s part of what Steve loves about the man, if Steve’s gonna be honest.

“Of _course_ it does?” Steve asks, not bothering to hide the disbelief, because love Tony, he does. Have faith in his _cooking_?

 

He...no, just flat out: he doesn’t.

“It’s just math and heat, s’fucking engineering for dummies,” Tony scoffs, still stirring without a single break, the tempo almost mesmerizing, and not _just_ for the shift and clench of the cheeks of that _ass_ , good _god_.

“And I,” Tony smirks, “am the most genius of all engineers in the entire universe. So yeah,” he turns for a moment to glance at Steve, to turn that grin straight at him: “Of _course_ it smells fucking good.”

And Steve’s not usually so thrown off kilter by Tony’s antics; he’s mostly used to them by now, if not in their content than at least in the fact that they’re _there_ , and a part of this man that he loves.

But _hell_ if Steve can put together a sentence, make a witty retort, or ever some absent gurgling sound that he’d be mortified by. Nope.

Steve can’t do a damn thing but stare, and wonder how in the hell Tony Stark exists.

And, as usual: he can’t make sense of it any better now than he ever has before. 

He’s just lucky—again, as usual—that the fact of the thing doesn’t depend on his brain sorting it out with any semblance of rationality.

“Because you were standing there all high and mighty with your hot chocolate from the 19  
fucking Hershey’s Cookbook, Rogers,” Tony breaks the silence, and Steve’s grateful for Tony’s tried-and-true MO, just then. 

“Looked it up. PDF from some university, came right up with a Google search, and you know what I fucking think of _Google_ ,” Tony rambles on, all the while stirring, though he does spare a glance at the clock, but only once.

“Showing off that vintage flair those Brooklyn hipsters are all about these days,” Tony throws the jibe, while Steve still stares at his back

“Your ma pick it up?”

And it’s a barbed thing, somehow, and Steve sees it as such—those words, that question. And that’s not all that surprising, with Tony, who is uncomfortable enough, still, with feeling at all that defense mechanisms are his retreats as a matter of course, almost automatic. Steve doesn’t fault him for it, and he’s learned not to hold it against him, not to feel sore about it, either.

But the strangest thing about it is: the barbs. They’re not pointed outward.

They’re not meant for _Steve_.

So Steve does what he can, without moving. Steve sees where those points are headed, where those sharp edges pierce, and from where he stands, he tries to soften the blow with all he’s got to work with.

His own heart, as a cushion for where the strike will fall.

“From a nurse who worked the children’s ward,” Steve nods idly. “While I was,” he breathes out slow, closes his eyes and can still see the white walls, can still smell the disinfectant, can feel the tightness in his chest here and now, like then and there for different reasons, but just as fierce.

“While I was taking an extended vacation there, myself,” Steve smiles wanly, remembering how he’d drifted in and out of consciousness; remembering coming to for the weight of his mother in uniform, sitting on the edge of his bed in a stolen moment before she was rushing elsewhere, needed elsewhere. 

“Promised that when I got out, we’d try some of the recipes.”

“Yeah,” Tony breathes out, lower, more hushed than maybe Steve’s ever heard before he clears his throat and tries again: more himself, maybe. Or less.

“Yeah, this,” Tony nods downward, still not turning to look at Steve. “This is from my mom, too.”

And Steve, for all that what they have is still new, for all that they’re still learning things every day between them: Steve _knows_ that’s a confession, a piece of a soul that doesn’t give, that barely thinks to try. That’s a miracle, those words; that offering.

A cushioning in kind.

“S’why I do the instant stuff,” Tony carries on: more miracles, soft and small. “Keeps me from thinking too much on, well,” Tony huffs what’s not a laugh by any stretch, but isn’t anything else, either: “You know.”

“Memories aren’t always the enemy,” Steve says, but it comes out hesitant, like he’s trying to convince them both, and maybe, yeah.

Maybe he is. 

“They hurt like a bitch sometimes,” Steve adds on, stronger now because that’s all truth; “but it’s better than forgetting.”

And that: that’s truth, too. 

“I’m always afraid I’ll forget,” Tony’s voice is that small thing, again. It sends waves through Steve’s blood to drive fissures through his heart with every squeeze and give.

“Me too,” Steve whispers. He’s started to second-guess the exact shade of his ma’s eyes. 

Sometimes he can’t sleep for it. So yeah. He knows.

“This keep her here, though,” Steve inches forward, though not yet near enough to touch. “You know that, right?” he moves again, close enough that Steve’s sure Tony can feel it, but there’s no contact, not unless Tony wants it. “Little things.”

“People live in little things every day,” Steve says, and breathes heavier in the words so that Tony can feel them in the air, against his skin. “So that’s the _real_ place they get to live on.”

For the first time, Tony stops stirring. 

“That a side effect of the ice?” Tony bites out, but it’s too thick for him to cut straight through. “Infinite wisdom about life and death?”

“No,” Steve smiles fondly, and hovers just above leaning the bridge of his to Tony’s exposed neck. “That was my ma, or else,” he exhales, and Tony shivers. “That was my dad.” 

Tony’s spine straightens, just a little, the tension visible without any clothes to hide it.

“She said that’s what he told her, before he shipped out,” Steve recollects, can hear her voice as soft and nostalgic and sad as his own is now. “Remember all the little things, if the worst happened,” he quotes, and pretends to know what his dad might have sounded like. “Because that was how she’d remember best.”

And it’s quiet, for a moment. But after the moment: once Tony breathes out, just this side of boneless, and sways into Steve’s orbit, brushes against Steve’s bare chest, well: all bets are off.

“Come here,” Steve breathes, drawing Tony in with hands on his waist.

“It’s done,” Tony leans forward, turning off the burner before leaning back into Steve’s body, heaving a sigh.

“Just like she used to,” Tony whispers. “She was born here, but her mom was Italian, straight up and down.” 

Steve sneaks a kiss to the corner of Tony’s jaw, and he feels it quirk up as Tony leans forward again, grabs for the pan as Steve holds out the mug waiting on the countertop.

“She used to make this when she felt things too much, she said,” Tony’s nose scrunches up, like he doesn’t know what to make of that in the now. “Happy, sad, whatever. She’d whip it up, just enough for her and me. And that was that.”

Tony stays a little lost in the thought for a moment before shaking himself back to the now, and pouring the thick chocolate into the cup in Steve’s hands. Steve watches the slow flow of it, molten almost, with wide eyes before Tony straightens the pan, and Steve raises the mug to his lips.

It’s probably best that they’re facing each other, now, rather than back-to-front with Tony’s bare ass up against Steve’s hips, because the moan that Steve lets out when the chocolate hits his tongue is _sinful_ , and it’s much too close to what he lets out in bed. Best that there’s no room for misunderstanding, really.

This one’s all for the decadence sliding down his throat.

“This is amazing,” Steve swallows, and sighs with pleasure, and most of the pleasure’s for the hot chocolate, he’s not going to lie, but a nice chunk is also for the way the the weight on Tony’s shoulders, the cold touch of memory lifts and he brightens, smiles broad so that his eyes start to sparkle again.

Some of the pleasure’s for that, too.

“It is, isn’t it?” Tony nods, and grabs the mug from Steve’s hands to take a sip himself—much to Steve’s dismay. “You sound surprised, though.”

Steve makes a scramble to take back the mug, at which Tony laughs and Steve just drinks deeper, once his prize is secured.

“ _I_ made it,” Tony needles further, bumping his naked hip against Steve’s. “Of course it’s fucking amazing.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but says, nothing, because it’s not like he can deny it.

“And I learned it from Maria Stark,” Tony says, a little sad, but mostly proud. “So with that on top of it?” He leans up, and kisses Steve’s chocolate-rimmed mouth with his own. “There’s no room for any doubt.”

And Steve thinks both their mother’s are there, a little, when they sit and drink what’s left; when Steve demonstrates his utter lack of shame and takes his fingers to lick clean the pot itself. Steve thinks they do twin legacies proud.

Steve also thinks it’s best they leave their mothers in the kitchen for the time being, though, because Tony’s still naked, and maybe Steve drank a lot of delicious hot chocolate, but that doesn’t mean he’s satiated. 

He’s got a super soldier's appetite, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://hitlikehammers.tumblr.com).


End file.
